


The Moment You Realize

by Ms_Julius



Category: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel - Michael Scott
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-03-24 21:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Julius/pseuds/Ms_Julius
Summary: During their time at the prison island Alcatraz, Billy and Machiavelli both find out something new about their partner of crime.





	1. Billy's realization

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by @infinitetrigger-uw, asking for a scene where Machiavelli and/or Billy realizes their feelings for each other.  
> Thank you for the suggestion, I had a really fun time writing this!

The bright rays of sun danced around the edges of the gleaming stones of the shore, reflecting the light back to the eyes of a young man balancing on the metallic railing, set to keep wanderers away from the cold waves beyond it. The man didn’t seem to care about the freezing water-drops as they irrigated his thin flannel shirt, nor did he notice the biting breeze sweeping through the empty yard in front of the old prison.

Alcatraz had changed little if any during the years of its neglect, the oldest walls falling apart long before the facility even got shut down, and the roofs once strong enough to hold their own in the ever changing weather of the western coast were now tumbling down piece by piece, chunks of concrete and hardened mortar lying alongside of the long, dark hallways. The building had served its original purpose ages ago, and therefore had been left on its own after it turned out that turning it into a museum attracted tourists rather poorly, and the costs of keeping the monument intact would exceed any estimated profits by far.

But then, a well-known enterprise lead by the man named John Dee, had risen up and offered to buy a whole shebang with cash, saying that it would indeed be turned into historical museum for tourists and locals to enjoy.

The deal was made in a heartbeat, the city’s representative barely daring to believe his luck when he signed the papers and transferred the heavy money case to the nearest open bank.

Despite the promise given during the negotiations, the island kept deteriorating. Nothing implied that there was any intention to reconstruct or repair the old prison, and so the public forgot about the isle quite soon. All that was left was the shadow of the grim structure, blanketed by the clouds in the rainy sky. By the year’s end, there was no noticeable motion on the rocky shores.

But then came the night when Dee returned to the property, and brought something with him.

The seagulls colonizing the island had flown off at the very moment the rusty freighter hit the bay. Even if there were no sounds to be heard, the anxious birds sensed the predatorish auras lurking inside of the metal walls, deciding to take flight before they’d end up face to face with the new residents of the deserted jail.

And now Billy the Kid could feel the same energy pulsing away from beneath the ground, the distant growls and slumberous howling of the sleeping beasts causing him shivers on top of the ones given him by the brisk winds circulating the island. However, he had been through worse during his time in the old west, and it’d take much more noisy, ferocious snarls for him to step down from the low wall on which he was currently walking, his blue eyes fixed to the horizon before him. The sun was setting, and the last beams of warmth and light tickled his cheeks as the man sat down, letting his slim legs dangle over the edge of the stony barrier. The metallic railing was now at the height of his forehead, and so he lifted his arms up, curling his fingers around the cold iron. The view in front of him shifted slightly as the sun slipped behind the far-off waves.

“Such a beautiful sight.”

Billy jumped, almost knocking his head to the pole above him as the silent voice spoke out behind him. Muttering to himself, he turned halfway around to look at the tall, gray-haired man standing just a few feet away from him, the equally gray eyes locked to the scenery presented by the sunset. Machiavelli’s once clean and orderly suit was beginning to tear apart from the sleeves and helm of the jacket, and his legs were thoroughly soaked in mud and sea water. In any other circumstances, Billy would’ve found that hilarious. But in here, it was just another reminder of their ongoing task.

“Well, I’m glad you’re still a human enough to appreciate it.” The cowboy talked with a light tone, borderline teasing the older man as he swirled his head back around and let his gaze rest on the landscape. “Seen plenty of fellows in my days who wouldn’t give this kind of stuff a second thought, let alone openly admire it.”

The Italian stepped closer, coming to a stop just behind Billy’s left shoulder. “I have had my fair share of gruesome scenes. After you witness some of the darkest years of humankind’s history, you’ll learn to savor the finer aspects of life. Such as this lovely night.”

“Guess you’re right”, the outlaw said, leaning a bit forward to peer into the dusky depths of the ocean coiling at his feet. “I do enjoy it myself, mainly because it doesn’t remind me of home.”

Machiavelli raised an eyebrow at that. “You are at home, Billy. We are standing on American soil.”

“Yeah, but not the kind I remember from my youth.” The man kicked the surface of the sea with his worn out boots, sending drops of the salty water sparkling into the air. “It has changed.” He left his right foot dangling into the waves, lifting the other one up so he could rest his elbow against it.

The older man was about to open his mouth to speak, when suddenly his sharp gaze caught a glimpse of movement under the surging surface. Same sluggish motion happened again, this time closer to the leather boot still floating below the water level. Machiavelli stepped towards the humming cowboy, his arm stretched out in attempt of taking a hold of the other man’s shoulder.

“Billy, pull up your -”

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence. Before he was close enough to grab his associate, a long, slender hand with disturbingly muscular fingers wrapped around the younger man’s ankle, yanking him forward and legs first into the cold, spinning sea behind the railing. Billy’s grip from the pole did not last for a second.

Staring at the water in a speechless wonder, Machiavelli could feel the strangling sensation settling in his own throat as the blond head sank beneath the swirling waves with a sickening squelch.

As the Italian rushed to the brink of the cement wall, few air bubbles popped up to the surface, but there were no signs of Billy’s messy thatch nor his undoubtedly wildly kicking calves. The pieces of seaweed and twirling foam blurred the water, he had no way of seeing past the thick cover into the depths. It was only when a fin, resembling that of a dolphin’s in color and shape, broke out from the water than the view to the bottom of the shallow shore opened.

It was not a surprise for him to be greeted by the very sight he did not wish to set his eyes upon.

A nereid, face as gray and savage as the ocean enfolding her, smirked at him. The pointed fangs, the pride of all merfolk, were exposed in all of their glory. Dipping a bit lower, deeper into the waves, it lifted up a brawny arm, showing him the limp, pale-faced man floating within its grasp.

Machivelli’s own cheeks lost all their color as the severity of the situation dawned upon him.

Billy didn’t seem to be able to get himself free from the rigid hold. And the panic shining from cowboy’s wide eyes caused Italian’s heart to beat in rapid pace.

He’d have to jump in. Into the sheer blackness and confront who-knows-what lying hidden in the ocean’s twirling surf. In the water. The one place he did not, _would_ not enter out of his own free will, not if he had any say in the matter. Not after the experience he’d had at Etna... The murky darkness around him, crushing pressure tightening all over his body, no sounds to be heard except the hallow thumping of his own heart...

Without his consent, an unwanted image of Billy’s lifeless, white face rose into his mind. Blue eyes staring at him blankly, asking for help and yet knowing it would not be coming. The final burst of air escaping bluish lips before he’d disappear from the view as the seaweed wrapped around his arms and legs, securing him in their deadly embrace.

The young, lively immortal suffering the same fate he had once endured, but failing to come back to the surface as he had done.

Typically Machiavelli was not a man who succumbed himself to a vulgar language, much less to outright swearing, but this was one of those times when even the tourists on the far away opposite shore could hear the remote, crude shouts coming from the abandoned prison island.

With a grimace and an intense shudder, Machiavelli kicked off his custom-made dress shoes and shrugged down the hard hit suit jacket. After a slight moment of hesitation, a final look at the inert face of the young American, still barely visible past the waves and turning alarmingly wan, he let out a shaky sigh and dropped down into the ice-cold water.

Immediately a chill ran through Machiavelli’s whole body, breathing becoming extremely difficult as a long-time fear seared into his memory swelled up and filled his head with horrifying pictures of a bottomless water, darkness and the bloodthirsty creatures swimming in circles around his frail, floundering frame. And he himself just wiggling there. Unable to see them coming.

Incapable of fighting back.

The strong set of waves splashing against his chest finally woke him up from his dismal thoughts. With a shake of his head, the magician took a calming gasp of air and focused with all his years of practice to the most pressing matter at hand. Mainly keeping his own body afloat, and his rising anguish under control as the pressure of the water started to ache within his nerves, reminding him of his last encounter with the element.

Suddenly, a short distance away, a desperate sway of a hand broke through the surface, swinging wildly back and forth above the waves. Following it up came a heap of blond hair, darkened by the amount of water dripping from it, and a upper body of Billy the Kid, struggling to get away from nereid who even now was only tightening her grip of the cowboy, trying to drag him back down. Soon the air was filled with sounds of fists hitting flesh and howls of pain as both strikers got accurate hits in, the nereid’s voice ringing louder than the cowboy’s. From Machiavelli’s current viewpoint, it seemed that Billy was getting the better of the mermaid, pushing her off him and connecting a hefty heel-kick into her lower stomach.

The sudden blow caused the nymph to detach its hold, doubling over with a hiss of agony and a futile attempt to regain her prey by plunging forward in the water. However, Billy was no stranger to the hand-to-hand combat, despite his experience with mainly firearms, and the young man managed to thrust his elbow up to the nereid’s chin, landing another fine hit which bought him enough time to swim further away from her.

Gasping for air, the outlaw made a lewd gesture with his hand, grinning as he spotted the Italian battling in the waves near the island’s banks.

“A teeny swimming round a day keeps the doctor away, eh?” A rambunctious laughter frightened the nearby tern population and the flock jumped to fly, soaring high over the two men who were now floating in the water nearly side by side.

“I bet I got you a bit worried there for a sec, Mac.” The cowboy ran a hand through his wet hair, smirking as a slice of seaweed tangled up in his fingers. “Been a while since I’ve a dip like that. Was a tad scared myself at first, that bastard sure knows how to sneak up on a fella.”

Machiavelli’s frown was enough to cut the younger man’s joy short. “You are being careless, Billy. Dangerously so.” Plunging his own hands into the water, the magician tried to remain calm. He could feel his body begin to tense as a result of the coldness surrounding them. “And this is the first _and_ last time I’ll ever embarrass myself by trying to fish you out from troubles of your own doing.”

With a sharp turn, Machiavelli spun around and began to swim back to the solid land. He could hear a faint snicker from behind him, deducing that Billy had followed his example and was coming right after him. Reassured by the knowledge, the Italian kept his eyes locked to the wall a couple of meters away, hoping for a dear life that his tired arms were still strong enough to pull him out of the water once they’d get there. Or perhaps he should order Billy to haul him up. The boy owned him that much for diving after him for nothing. The youngster was constantly making his job harder that it had any right to be, and on top of that the nitwit himself did not even seem to acknowledge this.

Apparently sensing his present state of mind, the outlaw called out to him, the high-pitched voice rubbing his nerves more than usual.

“Hey Machiavelli, not to sound ungrateful or anything, but you really should lighten up already! The motherfucker is gone, and I’m still in one piece. And I’m not one to brag but I had everything pretty much in the bag by the time you showed up and -”

A loud shriek came out suddenly, and without a warning the waves spiraled, causing Machiavelli to inhale a mouthful of salty water in his hurry to stop his forward movement. As he turned back, he could just see the far too familiar hand tugging at Billy’s jeans, the nasty row of yellowish teeth snapping close to the cowboy’s flailing hands while he struggled to keep his head afloat.

The nereid was not letting go. Once again, Billy was starting to sink.

And at that point, the exhausted magician had had enough.

A fisted hand shot upwards, and after it started the sky darken. Any remaining traces of light drowned into the newly formed clouds, a low rumble running through the air. In the middle of them, a ball of energy broke out, firing down a flashing lightning that illuminated the sudden darkness fallen onto the island.

By the time the bolt came whistling down from the skies, Machiavelli had already swam forward. With an angry huff, he wrapped his arms tightly around Billy’s waist, pulling him partly against his own body while simultaneously aiming a kick to the nereid’s stomach with his other leg.

He missed, but it mattered little. At that moment, the hissing lightning he had summoned seconds before, landed in the middle of the puffing chest of the nereid, breaking the rigid grip it still had of Billy’s right arm.

The hit was not the most powerful one, just enough for a mild stun, but it did create a chance for Machiavelli to rip the gasping cowboy from the creature’s weakened hold altogether. Breathing hard, he began to carry his droopy burden towards the safety of the shore behind them, his legs kicking the water as fast as he possibly could. Through his efforts and his own loud wheezing, he could hear the splashed as the waves parted, making room for the nereid when it dove after them.

It reached them in few seconds.

During his days as a politician in old Italy, Machiavelli had always thought himself as a calm, intelligent man who had no need to worry or fear for his life in regular basis. He was always three, sometimes ten steps ahead of his pursuers and more often than not he came out on top when speaking of life threatening situations. No knife, no menacing poison hiding in his dinner, could shake him or break his peace of mind.

And yet, listening to the screams of the nereid as it rushed through the water merely a few feet away from him, pointed claws scraping the air, stroke a spike of white-edged terror in his already rapidly beating heart.

The encounter was inevitable, Machiavelli knew it. After a while of chase, the nereid let out a victorious howl, diving onto them with the fangs and nails bared, eyes gleaming in the final bits of light.

Machiavelli was not about to give in either. By allowing his protesting body to sink a bit deeper despite the signs of distress it was incessantly sending to him, he managed to dodge the slashing sweep of the claws that was meant to hit his widened eyes. The shriek of wrath running through the air set Machiavelli’s trembling nerves on fire, but was not enough for him to let his grip slip as he pumped the water with his legs, the distance between them and the furious nereid growing by the minute.

“If we survive from this, next time you decide to make our lives this difficult, I shall hurl you back into these waves myself.”

Hacking up bursts of salt water and mucus, Billy refrained from answering and instead lifted his shaking hand to pat it gently against Machiavelli’s own. The squeeze of the fingers was firm.

And the gesture did not go by unnoticed.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of hours, Machiavelli felt his feet scrape against the concrete cushion of the outer wall. A sigh of relief left his lips, the fatigue in his rarely used muscles becoming overwhelming. He gathered all of his remaining strength and pushed his limp companion to the hard platform, climbing himself shorty behind. While pulling his drained body up from the waves, Machiavelli remained painfully aware of the fact that the revengeful nereid could still easily bounce out from the waters and snatch them both back into the muggy hell they had just escaped. And he did not have any energy left to fight it off, not after the draining of aura he had to endure mere moments earlier.

Luckily, the fortunate favored them, at last. The creature did not reappear, and Machiavelli got to haul himself up without further incidents. A narrow chest heaving, hands shaking and his mind blunt, the worn-out magician slumped softly onto the barrier, letting his eyes gaze unseeingly at the darkening sky above.

For the first time in his long life, Machiavelli could feel every past year in his aching bones.

“Maybe I am getting a bit old for this.”

* * *

 

His chest felt really sore.

Slowly and avoiding sudden movements, Billy the Kid lifted his whole body upwards. As his vision started to return to normal, he shifted his eyes from the evening clouds on the sky to the tall, panting man lying not too far from him, the gray, ever so groomed hair glued to the man’s skull by the salt water. Over the humming of the waves, he could still hear the screams of the seagulls soaring high on top of them, the flock coming back to the island, curiously eyeing the pair of men resting on the concrete wall.

“Well, that sure was something, huh?” he said silently, pausing for a moment to cough into his soaking wet flannel sleeve. “Must be one of the best swims I’ve had for a while.”

“Billy.”

The roughness of the voice of the older man was overcome only by the weariness lurking behind it.

“If you ever, and I mean _ever,_ do something as irresponsible as this again, I will personally make sure you will not live to see the following morning.”

His eyes sparkling, Billy howled out a loud laughter which shortly ended with a new fit of coughs, but was soon continued with even more volume than before.

“Why, nobody asked you to jump in there yourself! I told you, I could have handled that, was not my first rodeo, y’know?”

“Perhaps so. How foolish of me. You had everything under control, of course.”

Billy frowned, turning around completely to glare at the magician who was still lying flat on his back in the ground.

“You are sounding a bit too sarcastic here for my taste, Italian.”

“And you were looking a bit too pale for my liking back there, cowboy.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Neither one seemed willing to be the one to break it, and so Billy allowed his gaze drift off, settling on watching the clouds as they disappeared into the night sky, making room for the stars to come out. They would not offer much lighting, but the two immortals did not really require it. If needed, they’d be able to summon up some light themselves, or at least Machiavelli could. Billy had seen him do it before, the ball of warm glow appearing onto the delicate hand, the flames inside of the dome dancing silently.

And the Italian had done it so effortlessly. Hunching up against the cooling air, Billy turned his thoughts complitely from the late occurences and instead focused them wholly towards the other immortal.

His eyes slipped shut without him even noticing.

Undeniably, the man was strong. And brave, if today’s presentation was anything to go by. Given a choice, Billy was not sure if he would have jumped head first into the icy, dangerous waters filled with murderous merfolk to save someone he had just met. A friend, maybe, or a guy to whom he owned something, but not a complete stranger.

And yet, the bloody madman gasping behind him had done just that.

The actions of the day did not match with the data he had received from his master at all. In the files Quetzalcoatl had given him, the Italian was portrayed as a manipulative, distant and even cruel man who wouldn’t lift a finger to help another human being if there was nothing in it for him to achieve.

Guess the Elders didn’t know their servants as well as they thought.

Deep in his own thoughts, Billy’s hand fell to rest on his stomach, around the area where a surprisingly powerful arm had wrapped around him few minutes ago. The feeling of composure it had offered, the realization that there was someone else in there, in the water, trying to help him regardless of the fact that the whole situation was mainly his own fault.

The comfort of knowing that had he sank down for good, the last minutes of his life would not had been lonely ones.

“Are you going to sulk out here the rest of the night, or can we move to the indoors? I, for one, would like to lie down on something warm for a change, especially since my backside is freezing off after that ‘dip’ you forced me to participate in.”

The calm, slightly snarky voice startled him yet again. Without him realizing it, during the time he had spent daydreaming Machiavelli had gotten up and was now staring down at him, clearly waiting for an answer.

With a jolt Billy shot up to his feet, swaying little from side to side as his balance refused to cooperate with him at first. Machiavelli had seen this coming, and was standing next to him in a flash, supporting his flimsy figure as they started their slow walk towards the ominous building looming in the center of the island.

Hesitating for a second, Billy gradually raised his hand and looped it around Machiavelli’s neck, passing more of his weight to the taller man. This was met with a knowing glance from Machiavelli, and a minor adjustment in the way they were moving. The Italian was practically carrying the cowboy, the smaller feet barely touching the ground as the magician hauled his companion higher against his hip. Their cheeks were pressed together, both of them too tired to care. After a while they found a common rhythm and despite the constant wobble from Billy’s part, the doors of the prison were closing in much faster now.

In his drained state, Billy was not about to complain about the assistance he was given. He was far too weary to even held his weighty head up, much less to walk back to the prison all on his own, and he was man enough to admit that. When offered help, Kid was not one to turn it down.

And if he did enjoy the warmth of Machiavelli’s bare skin against his own a bit more than he probably should have, he wouldn’t wrinkle his nose at that either.

Seeing as in his line of work, a company worth of keeping was extremely hard to find, once he came across of someone who peaked his interest, he’d not let up easily.

And boy, had the Italian gentleman made himself seem interesting.


	2. Machiavelli's Realization

Rambling alone in the halls of an abandoned prison was not one of the smartest forms of entertainment for an ordinary gentleman, but you simply couldn’t describe Niccolò Machiavelli with a word ‘ordinary’, and even the title of a ‘gentleman’ was disputed by many. Or so he had heard. None of them had been foolish enough to say anything out loud in his presence. Machiavelli himself hadn’t felt like he earned such a label in a very long time, much less the status that came with it. As such, he wasn’t a slightest bit bothered while walking past the damp, mold-soaked rooms whose leaking ceilings and crooked walls had given in to the teeth of time many years ago.

The detention facility around him highlighted his already gloomy state of mind. Shadows dancing on the walls sealed the greenish alga growths within them, encouraging the viscous plants to grow more densely in order to cover the slim drops of light that managed to slip in every now and then from the gaps of the rusty barred windows. Ever-present cloud of moisture began to creep in, making Machiavelli’s custom-made suit heavy and causing the expensive fabric to smell rather musty. Not to mention the chills running down his back as the cold breeze blew through the corridor. Huffing to himself, the magician squeezed his hand into a fist, toying with a thought of a warm flame skipping effortlessly at the tip of his fingers.

Such train of thought was cut short by the force of a hollow, bone-rattling growl which wafted audibly from the other end of the narrow hall; from the prison cells.

The main reason as to why he avoided using his aura on this island.

The snarling beasts lying deep in the dimly lighted cages, locked away behind thick bars, didn’t bring about much of a reaction from Machiavelli as he strolled past them. His eyes were kept firmly on the far end of the corridor, making sure not to initiate eye-contact with any of the creatures. Over the years he had come across several of the monsters from the dark ages, stared into those inhuman eyes without a blink, and walked out from the encounter as a winner. Sharp teeth and high-pitched roars did not startle the immortal Italian, but his apparent indifference towards the beasts was based on more than a mere success in the past. Machiavelli had drowned himself in research and data collection during his long life, regarding both this Shadowrealm as well as multitude of others, and therefore knew that these sad creatures wouldn’t be able to harm him in any way as long as he remained far enough from the bars.

Picking up his pace on the clammy hallways, Machiavelli took a sudden turn to the left, stepping inside from a worn-out door that had been left partly open for him. The room opening up before him was lighted only by the flames of a flickering fire, the temperature fortunately notably warmer than that of a drafty air in the cell wing, and he was quick to push the door fully closed in order to prevent the heat from escaping.

Before he had a chance to announce his arrival, the singular resident of the room let out a welcoming call and hopped upright from his seat by the campfire.

“Mac! You won’t believe this; I found more dry logs from that small sideroom over there! Or well, _now_ they might as well be used as logs.” The grin spreading across Billy the Kid’s face was enough to ignite a simmer of doubt inside Machiavelli’s mind.

Italian’s eyes were flashing while he walked deeper into the room, ignoring completely the younger man’s futile attempts to maneuver his path towards the fire. “And what were those ‘logs’ used for before they ended up as firewood?”

Significant blush that climbed on outlaw’s cheeks almost managed to lure a shadow of smile from the magician, but as usual, his face remained blank while his steps took him to the open door of the sideroom. Leaning forward, he scanned the dim space with his gaze, eventually halting to stare at the carcase of a single bed in otherwise empty room, the furniture lying on the floor in several pieces. Wooden parts were pulled off with force, causing the central part of the frame to give in and leaving the once white mattress lolling in the middle of the watery concrete floor. The water layer that had piled up on top of the scuffed surface was already soaking the fabric thoroughly, and Machiavelli found it hard to ignore the thick stench of mold that seemed to hover heavily in the air.

“Billy, you do realize we could have used that bed for sleeping?”

Not bothering to turn around, he disregarded the silent utterance coming from behind him. With a good will one might have interpreted it as an apology, but Machiavelli was not quite that generous person. Turning his attention back to the task at hand, he bent down and took a hold of a corner of the wet mattress. A disgusted grimace on his face, Machiavelli straightened his back and got his burden lifted off from the dirty concrete. He was cursing quietly under his breath, although he’d had never admit it to the other immortal.

The off-hand comments about his physical abilities were hard to tolerate as it was.

Carrying the soaked mattress over to the main room did little to improve his mood, and in addition to the heaviness of the bedding, his efforts were hampered by the fact that he had to haul the damn thing high enough on his shoulders so that it didn’t gather more grime in its tow as it was moved across the floor.

After getting himself and the mattress over the threshold he glanced at the young man that was once again sitting comfortably by the campfire.

“Do not bother to get up, there’s no need for assistance.” The mattress hit the floor, dried by the fire, with a thump.

The mocking tone oozing from the magician’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. “Oh, you needed help with that? Didn’t quite catch ya asking from all the way over here.”

Machiavelli, now rubbing his filthy hands against his trousers, sat down with a sigh, trying hard to forget the sickening splash coming from the mattress as he set his weight on it. “Just because of that blurt you have now won yourself a first lookout shift of the night. Congratulation.”

“Lookout shift?” Billy’s gaze snapped to him, brows raised. “Why? You said yourself that the monsters were pretty much harmless for now.” His smirk inched upwards, blue eyes sparkling with a teasing glimmer. “Or is the great immortal Niccolò Machiavelli just scared of the dark?”

Machiavelli settled in a better position on the cushion - a rather uncomfortable one by the looks of it - and turned over in order to lie on his left side, facing the glowing, warm fire. He kept his face as expressionless as possible, and let his eyes slip shut. “Are you honestly that naive, Billy? The monsters on this island are the least of our worries.” He didn’t feel like honoring the comment about his potential fear of darkness with an answer. “You of all people should know so by now.”

“Then what are we keeping an eye out for, huh? It’s not like there’s gonna be a soul in here but us”, Billy said, tossing another log into the fading flames.

Machiavelli parted his eyes a bit, sneering at the cowboy. “Let me put it this way: Do you think that Flamels, along with the rest of the supposedly ‘righteous’ immortals and Elders, are just going to watch silently as we plunge their treasured Shadowrealm into a complete chaos?”

His words had the exact effect he’d hoped for, shutting the outlaw up immediately. Billy’s mouth had set into a thin line, something Machiavelli hadn’t seen yet from him. But as expected, the silence finally fell between them, and despite his former attitude, Billy did remain next to the fire, eyes wide open and fingers of his right hand starting to absently stroke the handle of his six-shooter.

Satisfied, Machiavelli closed his eyes again and focused on evening out his breathing, a technique he had found useful when he’d had trouble falling asleep during travels around the world.

It worked well enough, and soon he was descending into a calming sheet of blackness.

* * *

It hit like a nail through his chest.

He was standing at the top of a staircase. Wooden rails, a dark carpet covering the oaken steps below. A grand chandelier hanging just above his head. Through the fog of his mind, he had the strangest feeling he had seen it all before. There was something eerily mundane about the light.

Why was he tall enough to touch it?

“Go away!”

The scream startled him. It was voice of a woman, bearing some familiarity in it.

He should have known this voice.

“I said go away! Back off!”

Letting his eyes travel downwards, to the lower end of the stairs, Machiavelli saw a dark-haired woman standing there, a look of utter terror on her face. Against her side she held a small child, no more than 3 years of age. A small boy with a brown, curling hair. A shattering panic cursed through his stomach as he leaned to the railing, his eyes wide with disquiet.

“Marietta?” He couldn’t recognize his own voice, the vocals turning up too low, too slurred. “How can you be -”

“ _Go away!_ ” The sound of his wife clear anguish was enough to stop him to his tracks, his legs almost giving out when he saw the fear aimed at him. “I will kill you if you come any closer!”

He stopped. But he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the scene before him. Without a word, he allowed his body to crumble, his weight causing the old wood to creak as he slumped down.

“Mommy, I’m scared.”

The complete horror in his son’s eyes, in his voice as he tucked his head away into the neck of his mother, small shoulders shaking with the force of his fear.

That was the thing meant to break him.

He couldn’t get back up, his voice didn’t rang out anymore, no matter how desperately he tried to call for them, to plea for them to stay. He couldn’t see anymore, his vision clouded by the sudden burst of tears running down at their own pace. He attempted to lock his gaze with Marietta one last time, just for a second so he could -

Somewhere behind them, out of the line of his sight, a door opened with a screech. And just like that, the two people he had loved more than life itself, turned their backs on him, and ran straight into the shadows that concealed the doorway leading out.

Past the tears leaking from his eyes, Niccolò could see the final glimpse of his son’s pale, disgusted face before the darkness hid them away.

Slowly, with a pained whimper, he lifted his right hand.

These were not his claws... Nor his blood...

* * *

The wailing shriek was loud enough to take Billy out of balance, his revolver nearly slipping from his fingers as he whirled around, eyes wide and alarmed.

“What the hell are you screaming at? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

He was turning just fast enough to catch a sight of Machiavelli raising up, face pale and pressed partly in the pair of shaking hands. The older man was now swaying slightly in place and was desperately trying to cease his rapid gasps for air. Even in the poor lighting offered by the fire, Billy could see the drops of sweat starting to form on the frowned forehead.

He took a tentative step forward. “Hey, you okay?” His gun was placed securely back on its holster at his hip. “What happened?”

For a moment it seemed as if Machiavelli hadn’t heard him. A slim hand slipped away from his face though, and Billy was able to take a better look at the other man as he knelt down beside him. “You saw something?”

Grey eyes lifted to meet with his, the gaze darting from one eye to the other. When he noticed how concerned Billy was becoming, he cleared his throat and made an effort to sit up taller.

“No, it’s nothing. Do not pay any mind to it.” The shiver in his voice was not dying out quite so soon.

The cowboy merely rolled his eyes, brows raised. “Well there ain’t a man who’d yell like that just for the fun of it, Mac.” Billy was not about to let this slide. He had his own suspicions about the problem at hand, and after a few minutes of silence he took a pity on the Italian. “Was it a nightmare? Stuff in this place kicking off some old memories?”

The usually steady gaze faltered as Machiavelli turned to look at his own hands, curled rigidly in his lap. “Something like that.”

Billy had had his own fair share of bad dreams over the years. A near hanging he had experienced once he’d been caught during one of their raids was a recurring theme, as well as the time he came close to bleeding out in the middle of the desert after his ‘mates’ left him behind following their joined attempt to rob a city bank. He knew what it felt like to wake up drenched in sweat, your heart racing and mind jumping from image to image without you having any control over the topics.

When he watched down at the man now struggling to compose himself in front of him, it was like looking into a mirror.

Carefully Billy lowered himself down as well, sitting right beside Machiavelli, their legs touching ever so slightly.

“There’s nothing wrong about having nightmares, man. I have a ton of them, to be honest.” He leans backwards, elbows propped against the mattress. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Should have known. But he was not going down without a fight. “Well, can I guess?”

“No.”

“I’mma guess anyway.” The magician’s hand came up to rub against his own messy hair. “Is it about the Flamels and Elders?”

“Drop it, Billy.” Machiavelli’s voice was starting to grow irritated. Billy ignored that with ease.

“Or does it have something to do with the fact that pretty soon we’re supposed to release a pack of beasts into the city? Is that bothering you?”

When an answer was not coming, Billy knew he had hit close to home.

“Is it the monsters themselves?”

Finally, Machiavelli let his shoulders slump down. “You just do not know when to quit, do you?” He sounded tired, much more so than before he’d attempted to sleep.

“Nope”, Billy said, his legs kicked up as he settled his weight more on his arms. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

Once again, no answer was given, but Billy hadn’t really waited one at this point. “You see yourself in them, yeah? Feel like, deep down, you’re kinda like one of them.” If his voice cracked a bit at the end, Machiavelli didn’t seem to notice. “I know I do.”

The silence from Machiavelli’s part grew more oppressive by the minute, and Billy ventured a quick peek at the older man’s face.

A pair of steel-gray eyes were aimed straight at him.

“Look I’m just sayin’” he began, arms lifting off from the mattress to gesture in the air, “we ain’t all that different from them, right? I mean, in some ways I think we’re even worse.”

At last, the Italian squared his shoulders and spoke out. “What makes you say that?” There was no accusation, nor resentment. Just a layer of curiosity.

Billy’s lower lip was tucked beneath his teeth before he continued. “Y’know, these guys are about to go and tear down a city, killing thousands of people.” He frowned, brows knitting shut. “They do that purely out of instinct, they don’t know any better. But we do, and we’re still going to go through with it.”

Beside him, Machiavelli hummed quietly, now resting his chin against his own folded arms. “So you are saying that based on their motive, or lack of it I suppose, they shouldn’t be held responsible for the destruction they are about to bestow upon the city?” His eyes drifted downwards. “And you wouldn’t grant us the same immunity?”

“We know damn well where we’re getting our arses into”, Billy said. There was an odd glimmer in his eyes, one that Machiavelli couldn’t quite grasp on. “We know, and we’re still gonna do it.”

Machiavelli shut his eyes then, letting his head drop heavily on his crossed arms. “Yes. Although, unlike these monsters, we have the power to change our mind.”

The fire was beginning to fade, and the shadows on the darkening walls became all the more opaque as the silence in the room went on. When Machiavelli took a glance at the his wristwatch, he saw that the midnight had passed over an hour ago. Their time on the prison island had been a short one thus far, and Billy’s words made the knots in his stomach tighten up as he watched the minutes tick by.

Billy sudden voice broke his train of thought. The cowboy was looking at him, blue eyes shifting when he met the gaze.

“Just so you know, I’m glad there’s two of us here.” Billy’s mouth curved into a small smile, the glimmer paling out. “Two inhuman monsters against the world, huh?”

Like that, the moment had passed.

With a deep sigh Machiavelli pushed himself up to his feet, making his way to the fire and adding more logs in it. “Now you are just being ridiculous.” He glanced behind him, shaking his head when he saw that Billy had stood up as well and was making his way towards him across the room.

Without bothering to move further back, Machiavelli sat down as close to the fire as possible, unknowingly settling on the same spot Billy had occupied moments ago. The cowboy looked at him briefly before sitting at the other side of the flames, curling up so that he could place his head into his open palms.

“You are planning on falling asleep tonight?” The question came out silent, Machiavelli’s voice lowering as the temperature in the room rose alongside of the fire.

“Sure am, at some point.” A wide yawn followed the outlaw’s statement. “Except if you wanna continue yours. Just figured you might wanna sit up for a while.”

The man was right. Machiavelli saw little need to try sleeping again so shortly after his nightmare. They had a tendency to return if given too little time to dissolve.

“My insomnia shouldn’t be a reason for you to stay awake. In fact it would probably be better if one of us got more than a few hours of sleep before tomorrow.”

“Nah, it’s all good”, Billy said, simultaneously rubbing his tearing eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m used to sleepless nights. Wouldn’t be the first time I pass out by the campfire.”

The mirth in his voice was enough to coax a mild smile out from Machiavelli. “And you’d be brave enough to turn your back on this ‘inhuman monster’ and fall asleep while I stay up?”

Billy let out a low chuckle. “You are not inhuman, Niccolò. At least not as badly as you think.”

“That’s not what you said earlier.”

The look Billy threw at him was suddenly a serious one. “Yeah, but that was before you pointed out that we had a chance to change our mind. You wouldn’t be thinking of a way out if you were completely on-board with this.” A lighter tone returned in a blink of an eye, blue gaze turning softer around the edges. “And besides, who said anything about revealing my back to you?”

When the magician simply glanced at him with an amused, but questioning eyes, a foolish smirk made its way to the cowboy’s face. “I would never turn my back on you, Mac.”

Barely finishing his sentence, Billy’s eyes started to droop, the heap of a blond hair falling to partly cover his forehead as his body slumped onward. Out of reflex, Machiavelli reached up and managed to steady the younger man before he’d fall head first into the fire in front of him.

It was a proverb with multiple meanings. Machiavelli knew that. Billy had simply tried to make a light out of the situation, to crack a joke at the expense of their former conversation.

He didn’t mean it _that_ way, Machiavelli was sure of it. Billy couldn’t have known. He simply could not know why the lightly-said words caused Machiavelli’s heart to pick up speed, to beat painfully against his ribs.

And yet, as he watched the outlaw nodding off by the warmth of the flames, Machiavelli allowed himself to imagine.


End file.
